(Editorial note: To sum this exhaustive, over written post up, here’s the short version: Get clean and sober, or die trying. Get busy, get a new focus in your life, get ready for the inevitable triggers, and arm yourself with some tools of mass distraction to fight off the urges. Beware of cross addictions and dry drunk behaviours, steer clear of self pity, dig yourself… and listen to Frank Zappa… he’s rude, he’s crude and he’s a total dude… That’s basically it)

Amidst a so far successful, and continued effort to remain abstinent from naughtiness non sustenance and the dire, relative atrocities, are many new trials and challenges that keep on fucking showing up unannounced (the darn crafty fuckers), some mundane in scale or significance, some inescapable and catastrophizingly trying to break this here numpty into said old, unwelcome behaviours. Their significance both unavoidable and fearsome as they crash land like meteors out of seemingly calm skies. This, girls and boys, is what we call real life;

The certainty of the shit hitting the fan every once in a while, a given, perhaps just to keep our feet on the ground, ego’s tethered on a humble leash, (like a smug, vainglorious kite dancing overhead) preventing them from drifting off into the wayoutousphere (stole that from lip gloss salesman Steven Tyler’s whack job autobiography ‘does the noise in my head bother you’) and ideas above ones station can really get on other people’s tits.

To think that life will flow, non-white-water-rapid styley and ever-crystal-clear, peacefully pace perfect, avoiding the darkest, harshest and most unfortunate shenanigans of our unnecessarily troubled world is as unrealistic as to continue down that dark and desperate road of addiction thinking it will lead to enlightened escape and blissful happy ever afters… or that current affairs/modern media will expose unbiased, non agenda driven, honest news rather than an infuriating head fuck of ‘what the fuck’s politicalamity confusion… ain’t gonna happen folks.

Trouble is, feeling real life is quite the ordeal without medicinal relievances. Maintaining emotional balance in early recovery is akin to being on a seesaw opposite a heffalump chuppa chops, (that’s a slightly rotund, weighty being FYI) and the feelings these babies conjure up are the very cunning bastards that got me into my own little stale cheese & pickle sarnie in the first place. Managing feelings, emotions and behaviours is exhausting business when in sobriety sensory overload. Then when aforementioned meteor slices through my tranquil skies and crash lands right in my path I panic, and thus begin the ‘to be expected’ urges/cravings.

So far, so good… so what? Well, as Bill Murray heroically declares in ghostbusters “let’s show this prehistoric bitch how we do things downtown”.

So, why whinge on about shit that we all have to deal with, well because it contradicts my own preconditioned understanding of life and the new found path of sobriety, it starts to reveal little side tracks off the path that whisper seductively and bargain for my soul under the misapprehension that no one will know, and therefore it won’t harm anyone… good one brain!

To conclude; my brain is a fuckwit and refuses to acknowledge what my post juiced up conscience has worked it’s backside off for. My thoughts will lead me down one of them sneaky alluring sidetracks and then what, just one beer? I have never in my life had just one beer, one drink, one line, one toke, one Penguin chocolate bar… one anything! So why would it be any different now?

I ate the whole fucking penguin multipack …at 4:00 a.m this morning… I only got up for a wee!?

This is my dry drunk behaviours way of fixing on lesser evils, although at this rate, I might have to accept I am no longer a 30″ waist size! As Frank Zappa said; “it’s the crux of the biscuit” touché indeed! …and as Spike Milligan wisely mused; “chopsticks are one of the reasons the Chinese never invented custard” perhaps I should move to China? Strictly for precautionary obesity purposes, post apocalyptic ballet!

So feelings agogo it is, as opposed to the whiskey agogo and dang son what a ride… these babies tend to heat up so I prefer to shoot in three second bursts -Del Preston, roadie and Wayne stock stage manager extraordinaire. One man alone cannot do this!!!

We all have coping mechanisms, and in my rebellion against old, lesser helpful substitutes I have aligned myself to a pre-chaotic/downward spiral mode of function at the junction, i reapplied the old teen me (as opposed to teen wolf) ways of focused creative escapism, not so much a distraction, more a potential pre-destruction detour within the brain box of my naysaying’ noggin’, and ya know what’s… it works a treat!

Alongside all the recovery based shenanigans: meetings, workshops, therapy, 12 step sponsor work, dry house bamboozelment and a bit of the ole meditating (to breathe in some calm to my hyperactive bonse) The vital balance is executed in varying ways: I paint, I write, I create, I practice and write music, I sow, I customise clothing, I tart up my car like a pair of pimps underpants, I run, I cycle and I hit the gym with a frenzy one would normally sandwich between the sheets for carnal activity, all to the soundtrack of my beloved devil music, my audiogazmic inspiration that never fails to get my creative ass in gear and energise my sometimes unmotivated, can’t be arsed, ass!

Because…

So there you have it, a recipe for my personal recovery and a balanced approach that has so far served me 10 months of grateful, lucid, positive momentum… as well as gym injury, waist expansion and hysterical laughter from passers by while behind the wheel of my delicious lil’ purple rain Corolla car contraption.

It looks just like a TeleFunken U-47
You’ll love it…With leather?

.

I suppose I’m learning to love myself (without use of hand) and raise that all important flag of self esteem, which in itself, along with total honesty- is the key to setting yourself free from the ‘man in a box’ mentality that grips all our ankles trying to drag us down on occasion, for myself, those ankle grips were like constant rusty gravitational shackles around my ankles, and only now at 36 years young have I found the key to rattle those locks off, akin to rocking my socks off!

So back to the fine works of sir Frank Zappa, an icon of not just musical mastery proportions, but of a sheer razor wit so sharpe it skewed any ignoramous in its path. Mr Zappa was arguably more punk rock than punk rock, more intellectually fearless and profound than any other six string noise rebel, in times of strife/trial and tribulations I ask myself “what would frank do” and the answer is always one of two things ” disarm/disengage whatever it is with humour or destroy whatever it is with intellectual warfare…

Don’t make a fuss… Just get on the buss!

It’s a way of life!

Frequently, both are match perfect to diffuse, dissect or disgrace the biggest baddest bully or the shitiest of shit storms… especially when those enemies are within your own head! Woah, pretty deep huh, besides that, I’m a lover not a fighter… obvzzzz z z z z . (It’s all in the reflexes).

And so it is with appropriation, great respect and love to all when I quote the profound truth within a romantic ballad from the ‘sheik yerbouti’ album:

‘Broken Hearts Are For Assholes’

A song that on the surface gives way to a disposable chuckle, and yet at its core lies a deeply fundamental message:

Wallowing in misery ultimately gets you nowhere, no matter how comforting or easy doing so it may be!

Self pity can be so detrimental to ones recovery and general motivation, yet it’s so easy to float in and engulf each of us when times get hard or the shit hits the fan.. this song also contains one of the more idiosyncratic descriptions of anal sex that the rock’n’roll canon has to offer, but you’ll have to go listen to it as me dear ole mum might be reading this, so… gotta harvest some kind of decorum here people!

So for now, that really is the crux of the biscuit, I’ll leave this with a descriptive observational line from ‘broken hearts are for Assholes’ as it displays perfectly the ying and yang balance of meaningful message and the down right filthy humour of sir Frank Zappa… the world is a lesser place without him, but a better place for having his life’s work ever ready to inspire and amuse us lesser beings. He really was that good!

“You say you can’t live with what you’ve been through… well, ladies you can be an asshole too! You might pretend you ain’t got one on the bottom of you!”

Peace, luv & multipacks of penguin chocolate bars…

Sammy x

p.s. you’re an asshole, that’s right… yes yes.

I knew you’d be surprised!